My apologies for taking so long to get this posted up. Between tornadoes and the craziness of life in general, it's been a rough few weeks!
Warning: This is not a happy chapter. Be prepared. Also jumps around a bit in the beginning, I hope it's clear enough.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Bioware. I own nothing except the computer on which I type, and the imagination with which I dream.
He slipped from the bed in the weak light of early morning. She stirred, rolling towards him as he pulled away.
"Go back to sleep," he told her, his voice a comforting rumble.
"Where are you going?" she murmured back, pulling the blankets up over her shoulders. The bed was infinitely colder without him next to her.
"The servants will be in soon," he said, gesturing with his chin towards the door. They could both here the castle beginning to stir. "You don't want them to find me here."
She shrugged one shoulder. "I don't care." She held one hand out to him, inviting him back. "Come lay down."
He glanced over his shoulder at her, one eyebrow raised in derisive skepticism. "You will care when the rumors begin."
"No," she told him, quietly honest, "I won't." She shook her head. "We aren't nobles anymore, Loghain. What do we care about rumors?"
He only hesitated a moment more before reclaiming his position next to her, holding her against him possessively.
"Is she okay?" he asked, his voice strained with concern and irritation.
"I don't know," Wynne replied. She sounded frightened, an emotion the mage rarely expressed. "She's alive, but she won't wake up."
Before they left Redcliffe that morning, she gave him a new set of armor.
He examined the dragonbone plate with a small smile of admiration. "Where did you get such a set?" he asked, deft fingers playing over the massive armor. He began laying the pieces out in the particular arrangement he used for cleaning.
"From a smith in Denerim," she told him, pleased that he was happy with her choice, "He made my own leathers from drakeskin. I'd given him the High Dragon material weeks ago, but couldn't decide what I wanted him to fashion – I can't wear heavy armors."
"The craftsmanship is superb," he told her, still distracted with his routine.
She laughed. "Wade would probably disagree. He's very picky," she explained at his glance of disbelief. She grinned at him then, took one of his wandering hands in her own. "But I'm glad you like it. It suits you much better than me."
He nodded at her in satisfaction. "Thank you."
"Is there anything I can do?" he asked. "What can I do?"
Wynne sighed. "You could try prayer. If you don't believe in prayer – maybe you should."
The march to the capital was long and wearying, and the welcome they received when they arrived left much to be desired. The Horde had already entered the city, and what little of the royal guard that had stayed behind had been nearly decimated in its wake. The King and his men fought valiantly, relentlessly, but theirs was a lost battle; Elissa's army arrived just in time.
They swept into the city, quickly taking back the main gate. She stayed as far away from Alistair as she could, ignoring his cold stare as she spoke to Riordan concerning the plan to lure the Archdemon into the open.
Loghain's frosty blue glare was harder to ignore; his gaze bore into her as she chose him to stay behind and lead the defense of the gates while she lead the charge into the city itself. He grabbed her arm when she would have turned to leave, pulling her back to him.
She expected him to rail at her, to argue that she should be taking him along with her. But he spoke nothing aloud, only looked into her eyes and said more without words than he ever could with them.
"I make my own path," she whispered, hoping he would understand.
He drew back, slowly releasing his grip on her arm. "One breath at a time," he told her gruffly, before turning and walking away.
"Just keep breathing, Elissa," his words were an order and a plea, "Maker damn you, keep breathing."
The Archdemon was terrifying; its cries filled the air, twisted through her mind and gripped her heart with fiery claws. She stared up at it, felt its fury at being injured, its overwhelming longing for vengeance. It sighted her and screamed its wrath, challenging her. A sudden fierce rage boiled in her own blood – here was the origin of all the heartache and pain and loss from the last year – and she returned the scream, extending her own challenge as she rushed forward with dual swords raised.
She cut through the lines of darkspawn, directing the Dalish to harry the dragon, to fire continuously at its flanks. Arl Eamon's soldiers manned the ballista, sending their deadly bolts flying at the tainted Old God when it leapt within range. The dwarves – so resilient after centuries spent fighting in the darkness of the Deep Roads – kept the dragon's minions at bay, driving the darkspawn away from where they sought to protect their master. The mages were kept busy healing, utilizing entropy spells to steal residual mana from dead or dying enemies.
The top of Fort Drakon was a slaughterhouse, black tainted blood mingling with brilliant red, and she lost track of how many fell. She blocked out the screams of the wounded; every step was a new discovery of agony. Her body would suck in a breath and she would force it out again, force herself to keep panting, keep moving, keep swinging and hacking and killing.
Something crashed into her from behind and she collapsed to the ground, her blades spinning away. She lay against the sticky stones, dazed, wanting nothing more than to linger in that spot forever.
An other-worldly scream brought her to her knees; the dragon was hit, a ballista bolt protruding grotesquely from just behind its left forelimb. The creature groaned, clearly in pain, and stumbled. Its legs buckled and the tower shook as it fell. The wedge-shaped head hit near to her, one mad, white eye staring at her in hatred and woe.
End it.
The words came from nowhere, floated through her mind like an oil slick sliding on top of water. The dragon hissed at her as she drove herself to her feet, but it made no move to stand itself.
End it now.
She was more than willing to oblige; with a snarl, she expended the last amount of her energy to charge at the fallen Archdemon. She grabbed a greatsword from a fallen comrade, and slammed the blade into the beast's head with a shout that was part victory, part valediction.
Pain.
Pain the likes of which she had never encountered lanced through her body. She was being ripped apart, torn into thousands of pieces. She curled into herself, coiled around the source of her agony, held onto it and gripped it with slippery resolve; she knew her life was ended when the pain ceased.
She did not want to live without him.
She wanted to live with him.
She wanted to live.
White light pierced her, and she was tossed around as the world exploded around her. Still she forced air into her lungs, even as the light receded. Every gasp cost her, wore her down; she counted them and kept breathing.
The pain did not cease.
"Wake up, Elissa," he whispered hoarsely, "You must wake up."
She held to the pain as her deliverance, her salvation. It hurt. It hurt so much, but she refused to let it go. She floundered in the aching darkness, lost.
"Falling is not the hardest part. Now, get up, Warden!"
He was there to help her stand; he aided her search for a path and pledged to follow her on it. He pushed her, pulled her, made her worse, and made her better. He had become a constant in her life, a solidarity in a world of upheaval.
He trusted her and she trusted him.
He was a voice in her head that spoke the words of survival, and she pursued the sound through the shadows.
He found her.
He guided her out of the darkness.
She lived.
The streets of Denerim were eerily quiet after being filled with the screams and cries of battle; the Archdemon was gone and the Horde routed, but few residents had yet to return to the city. Even the dogs were silent and still, cowed by the virulence of the darkspawn and their taint. A few of the most stoic were attempting to pick up the tatters of their lives, working long into each evening and simply dropping in their steps when they needed a respite.
Some of Redcliffe's soldiers appeared each day to stand guard over their self-appointed charges, while a handful of dwarves had begun to volunteer their stone-crafting assistance.
It was a small effort but an encouraging onel Fereldens were nothing if not resilient, more so when they actually worked together.
She watched their struggle from the palace battlements, taking up a post to observe Denerim mend. The palace guard had learned to ignore her presence here; she visited frequently in the days following the Blight, staying for hours, staring out over the blackened and ruined buildings in silent consideration.
She came to heal as she watched her people heal.
She came to escape.
A strange, novel hush had fallen inside her, a calm that she was not used to bearing. She was not restless, did not feel her customary frenetic desire for movement and distraction. It was therefore not her need of diversion that drove her to seek solitude; rather, it was the smothering adoration and acclaim she was receiving from all directions. Servants and soldiers, elves and dwarves and men she had never met were constantly seeking her out, wishing to see the woman who had almost single-handedly slain a god. Even her friends would hardly leave her side – though the one she most wanted to see was notably absent.
She overheard two mages speaking of him, how he led the storming of Fort Drakon after the explosion had rocked its summit. He had gone seeking for her broken body, had found her amongst the carnage, and carried her to the healers, stridently demanding her immediate care.
He had apparently disappeared after she began recovering.
She did not inquire after him further, presuming he was busy with other matters. It was enough that he had found her then; she knew he would find her again.
And he did.
It was dusk, the sun just starting to the tinge the heights of Dragon's Peak with fire. Her gaze was drawn to the mountain, drawn to the dark tower that hovered in shadow beneath it. Fort Drakon stood silent and solemn amongst the shards of the city; no one had dared venture to its pinnacle after the staggering number of bodies had been removed, and there were rumors circulating that spirits and demons already haunted the structure.
She stared at the edifice, wondering if a time would come when she would be asked to clear it of the shades that now roamed its twisted halls, wondering if she would ever again have the courage to brave its upper levels.
She thought she probably would.
She felt his approach long before she heard him. Even wearing heavy plate, the man moved like a ghost; when he was wearing leathers, he became a ghost – at least to the general populace.
Not to her.
She waited, gazing up at the tower. "I know you're back there," she said after he had been standing silently behind her for some moments.
"I know," he returned, subdued.
"You can sit down," she told him, looking over her shoulder to smirk at him. "I'm not going to run you off."
The corners of his mouth tilted upward slightly; his tone was slightly derisive, if amused. "Don't be so sure."
She shrugged and spun around on her bottom to face him. He was tense, his shoulders upright and tight under his leather cuirass, one gauntlet-covered fist clenching and unclenching at his his edginess, he looked good; he was clean and confident, and appeared younger to her eyes.
"I'm glad to see you," she told him quietly, the words coming out unexpected and honest.
His chin dipped in a shallow nod. "I apologize for being away during your recovery," he muttered. He did not expound on where he had been, and she did not push.
"It was a bit surprising to wake up at all," she said instead, trying for levity.
Flippancy had never been his strong suit; he gritted his back teeth together and the muscle along his jawline twitched. "That was more than obvious."
She blinked up at him, curious about his irritation. There was no evading the issue; she jumped headfirst into it. "Not that it mattered," she continued, "Because you had already taken care of the outcome, hadn't you?"
He did not look away from her, holding her gaze unapologetically. "I knew what you would do, because it's what I would have done in your place," he rationalized his actions to her, "And I wanted to prevent it."
"You took the choice away from me," she pointed out. Her voice was not critical; she still spoke evenly, almost serene in her composure.
There was, after all, no reason to be angry. What was done was done, and there was no going back and changing it now.
"I did what was necessary," he growled, his posture becoming defensive despite her tranquil demeanor.
She tilted her head. "Necessary for what?" she enquired.
He crossed his arms over his chest, his nostrils flaring. "To keep you alive," he barked back, clearly frustrated with her, believing she should already know his answers.
She narrowed her eyes. "So it's true then. Morrigan spoke to you in Redcliffe, and you agreed with her proposition." This was not a question. There could be no other way for her to have survived the Archdemon's slaying.
Now he did glance away, a flush creeping up his neck. His shoulders grew impossibly tighter as he nodded stiffly. "It was the only way," he said, and within the harshness of his voice she heard his plea for understanding, "I knew you wouldn't ask."
She recalled the curve in his back that night he had come to her room in Redcliffe Castle, the weight he had carried, how he had seemed crumpled by the world. But then her imagination was tugged away by a secondary image: his body hovering over hers, anger burning within him as he took her coarsely and without shame. She shivered, remembering his heat, and finally comprehending his need. "That's why you warned me, why you said you were afraid you would hurt me."
His utter lack of response was all the assent she needed.
She sighed softly in the growing dark. "Can I tell you about the Archdemon?" she asked, watching as the words drew his blue eyes back to her face. When he nodded, she admitted with a tremor, "It was terrifying, the scariest thing imaginable. And when I finally sank my blade into its skull, it felt like - like dying – like I was being ripped apart by both light and sound. It was the most painful thing I have ever experienced – I don't know that I can fully explain it to you." She grimaced, distinctly recollecting the sharpness with which the agony had held her. Even now, if she thought too hard about it, she could feel it tingling along her skin like freezing fire and burning ice. "Suffice it to say," she said, wrapping her arms around herself protectively, "It was very, very bad."
He shook his head, his voice sticking in his throat. "Elissa –"
His use of her name warmed her, stole the ache of her memories away, but she cut him off, wanting no interruption of her account.
He needed to know what had happened, what she had survived.
How she had survived.
Why she had survived.
"I knew," she spoke over him, "I knew that if I let go of the pain, that it would end – that it would end, and so would I. So I seized onto it," she told him, looking into his icy eyes, hoping he could comprehend what she was telling him, "I held it tightly and suffered it. I decided I wasn't going to let go easily – it would either have to take me by force - or it would cease." She shook her head slowly. "It did not cease for a very, very long time."
He stood straight and resilient before her, looking aggrieved. He said, "It was not my intent to hurt you." He looked as if he were now suffering every moment she had been made to suffer then. "It has never been - will never be - my intent to hurt you."
"I know that."
"Still, I broke your trust and lied to you."
She winced.
Oathbreaker.
Liar.
The very breeze hissed the allegations along the stone parapets, and she heard them repeated in her head by a voice that once spoke to her of love.
They were merely words; they could be wielded as any weapon, meant to wound in defense or cruelty, but only the listener could give them the power do so. Summoning her resolve - a resolve he had given to her - she waved them away.
"No," she said gently, firmly, her tone leaving no room for question, "You saved my life."
Whatever determination had been keeping him in place evaporated; he moved quickly, and she stood, meeting him halfway. She wrapped her arms around his waist, ignoring the studs on his leather armor as they dug into her skin. He returned the embrace, his grip strong and warm around her shoulders, his cheek resting on the crown of her head.
"I'm sorry," he whispered gruffly against her hair. "I'm so very sorry."
"For saving my life?" she asked, her mirth subdued against his chest. "There's no need."
"Yes," he said, "There is. Elissa –"
He hesitated and she felt a coil of fear in her gut; she had known the moment she heard him approach, the moment she had witnessed his tension, his reluctance, that something was wrong. He had been gone for so long – for too long – and she knew. "You're going away, aren't you?"
He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. "Yes." The single word was choked out painfully.
She reinforced her grip on him, clutching him harder to her. "Where?"
"Montsimmard, in Orlais," he said, and his disdain for the location was not subtle, "The First in Weisshaupt heard about my conscription and ordered me there immediately."
He strained against her, drawing away somewhat. She unwillingly did the same, tilting her chin up to look at him. "Have you tried getting the orders changed?"
His grin was halfhearted and rueful. "I have been trying. Unfortunately, this First seems to be even more stubborn than I."
"Impossible," she scoffed.
He huffed out a short chuckle, and his small grin was like a salve on the ache growing within her. "Perhaps he will tire of my persistence over time." But his humor was quick to dissipate as he leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. "I am sorry."
She knew now what he was really apologizing for, why he had called himself a liar.
She knew now what he had really lied to her about.
"You promised you would follow me," she said, her words a breath between them, "And you can't."
He leaned back to look at her, and traced the curve of her face with a leather covered finger. "I would that I could," he rumbled low. "Know that I will always follow you here," he said, pointing at his own head. He then reached around, taking one of her hands in his own. With their fingers clasped together, he pulled it forward and set it over her heart. "And here."
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing her tears to stay away. Now was not the time for crying. "I don't want to live without you," she confessed. "I don't know that I can."
"I find – I find I do not wish to live without you, either," he admitted, and she knew the admission was difficult for him. He was still learning how to want for things, how to ask for them.
He was still learning how to be just a man.
"Then don't leave." She blurted the words even knowing their foolishness. Neither of them were the type to blatantly ignore orders, let alone disobey them.
He twisted his hand, squeezing her palm in his. "You know I have to." When she looked away, embarrassed and defeated, he used his other hand to capture her chin and bring her gaze back to his own. "Without an end," he whispered gruffly, earnestly, "There can be no beginning."
She smiled sadly at that, rolling her eyes in feigned disgust. "I don't think I'll ever understand some of the things you say."
"Don't try," he told her with a burst of genuine laughter, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.
His lips found hers then, the kiss crushing in its gentleness. She wanted to cry at the injustice, at the severity of life, but would not allow herself. She asked against him, "When do you leave?"
"A few days. The preparations are already set."
Dragging herself away from him, she affected a leer. "Then let's not be wasteful with the time we yet have."
He shook his head, laughing again. "I'm only a man," he grumbled, towing her closer into him.
She hesitated, locking her body into stillness, staring up at him. Before he could kiss her again – before they both lost themselves to distraction – she told him solemnly, "You gave me the tools to survive, and showed me how to create my own path. I don't know how I will ever thank you for that."
"You have taught me more about living than I have learned in my entire existence," he replied softly, "That is thanks enough."
"I was so lost, and you found me," she whispered, "You always found me."
He had found her once. He would find her again.
The grin he shared with her was both heartbreaking and hopeful, and she understood why: they both had a future now, and a reason to continue. They both had their own breaths to take, their own paths to create and forge.
It was remarkable; her greatest enemy had somehow become her most trusted companion, a man she wanted and needed.
It was awful and wonderful, painful and beautiful.
It was life.
He leaned into her, his lips brushing hers; the words he spoke echoed in her ears, and would do so for many, many years to come:
"We found each other."
This is the end of Elissa and Loghain's tale - at least from this viewpoint. But there are still a few loose ends to tie up between Elissa and her King, so stay tuned for a brief epilogue... Alistair will be returning!
Also, I know there are some individual thank you's I owe - I will be sending them out with the epilogue. In the mean time, thanks to all that have encouraged me, given me ideas, and followed my story.